Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [59]
What roused him from these black times, Anja could never tell. Joram would suddenly sit up, cast a bitter glance about the hovel and at her, as if blaming her for his return. Then, with a sigh, he would return to life, looking as if he had wrestled with demons.
But so deep had he sunk this time that it seemed nothing might rouse him. The cold and rational part of his mind appeared ready to give up the light when it suddenly gained an ally—danger.
Joram’s first conscious thought was irritation at being bothered. But his next was one of excruciating pain that exploded in his knee, tore through his body, and snatched his breath away. Gasping and moaning, he rolled over in agony.
“It be live.”
Through a haze of pain and the departing shadows of darkness, Joram stared up toward the sound of the gruff voice. He had a confused impression of greasy, matted hair covering a face that once might have been human but now had degenerated into something bestial and cruel. Hair covered human arms and a human chest as well. But it was not a human foot that had kicked Joram. It was the cloven foot of a beast.
The pain jolted his nerves, body, and mind back to reality. Once again he could see and feel, and the first feeling he had was one of terror. He saw sharp hooves standing close to his head and, looking up, the powerful body of the creature that was half-horse and half-man looming above him. A sudden vision of that hoof slamming into his head caused fear to act as the second stimulant to Joram’s system. But it could only do so much. His muscles were stiff from long disuse, his body weak from lack of food and water. Gritting his teeth, Joram managed to rise up on his hands and knees, only to feel the hoof crash into his ribs, sending him sprawling headlong into a thicket of underbrush.
Pain stabbed him. Unable to breathe, he fought for air as the hooves clattered nearer. A huge hand gripped him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. Staggering on legs that stung with returning circulation, Joram would have fallen, but other hands held him up, binding his arms behind his back swiftly and skillfully.
A grunt. “Walk, human.”
Joram took a step, stumbled, and fell as the blood tingled in his numb legs.
The hands jerked him to his feet again and shoved him forward. The pain in his side was a slow fire, the earth heaved beneath his unsteady steps, trees reached out to maul him. He stumbled ahead, then tripped and fell into the dirt, landing heavily. His arms bound, he was unable to catch himself and he rolled in the muck.
The centaurs laughed. “Sport,” said one.
They hauled him to his feet again.
“Water,” Joram gasped through cracked lips, his tongue swollen.
The centaurs grunted, the hairy faces splitting into yellow-toothed grins. “Water?” repeated one. Raising a massive arm, he pointed. Joram, barely standing on his shaking legs, turned his head. He could see the river ahead of him, sparkling through the leaves of the trees. “Run,” said the centaur.
“Run! Human! Run!” shouted another centaur, laughing.
Desperately, Joram broke into a staggering run, hearing a cantering and thudding of hooves beating into the ground, feeling hot breath on his back, and choked by a foul, bestial odor. The river drew closer, but Joram felt his strength ebbing. He knew, too, with the certainty of despair, that the centaurs had no intention of letting him reach the river.
Once human, these creatures had been mutated by the DKarn-Duuk, the Battle Masters, and sent to fight in the Iron Wars. The wars had proved costly, devastating. The warlocks left alive were drained of their magic, their catalysts exhausted, having no more strength left to draw on the sources of Life. Unable to call upon the magic to change their creations back, the DKarn-Duuk abandoned their mutated soldiers, banishing them to the Outland. Here the centaurs lived their lives, breeding